


Games

by flamingburningfandomtrash



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Jokes, PDA, ketchup, you smack your head on a counter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22095526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingburningfandomtrash/pseuds/flamingburningfandomtrash
Summary: Games turn into games turn into games.Turn into condiment fights.Turn into knocking yourself unconscious by mistake.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	Games

**Author's Note:**

> Hey if my tenses get mixed up somewhere  
> tell me where so I can edit it  
> I'm not used to writing in the past tense after all my goshdang time on this site

Life is hard.  
But it’s nice to know, when everything goes to shit, it’s still possible to laugh at the little things.  
Like impromptu condiment fights.

You’re standing in the kitchen, ketchup smeared all over you, a mustard bottle in hand, in shock- a disbelieving laugh bubbles up as you stare at Sans.

He has the offending weapon- the ketchup bottle- in his hands, still aimed at you. He has a look in his eyelights that recognizes that he just made a big mistake, though he wouldn’t dare admit it.

“how’s that for predictable?” he asks, grin spreading. You roll your eyes at the old joke. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually DO it,” you scoff, still reeling- you wipe your hand over your shirt, then shake the ketchup off of your hand- it lands with a *splat* on the tile. 

“you didn’t think i’d have the GUTS?”

“Enough of your punning, skullboy!”

You aim the mustard and fire- *thwap*, right on his skull.

“oh, c’mon, not mustard!” he shouts, shaking his head like a wet dog. Yellow sprays out everywhere. “that stuff is gross!”

“I will have my revenge!” you shriek, running forward.

However, you forgot to take into account that you’re wearing socks on an already smooth tile floor, plus the slippery condiments. Which is how you went flying forward, smacked your head on a cabinet, and passed out.  
~~~~~  
It’s all been building up for weeks, anyway. To be fair, you had it coming.

It all started with a stray comment a few weeks ago.

You’d brought home milkshakes, one for you, one for him. There was a little ice-creamery down the street that did special orders, and Fridays were splurge days. You hadn’t had to ask what he wanted, of course. On Fridays dark chocolate and caramel was his favorite, because his preference normally changed with the weekday. 

“Hey, skullboy,” you hummed, walking in. 

The nickname was the name of a skeleton from a TV show you used to watch as a kid. Though he often complained that how they showed monsters on that show was inaccurate, he never once complained about the nickname. 

He was passed out on the couch, as per usual. You sighed, dumping your bag at the door and drawling.

“If you’re gonna pretend to be asleep, I guess I’ll have to drink your milkshake.”

He perked up, looking over as you plunked his beside him on the coffee table.

“what kind?” he asked, picking it up and trying to see down the straw.

“Dark chocolate-caramel.”

His eyelights flashed big and bright for a moment before taking a long sip. 

“how’d you know?”

“You’re predictable.”

Now, he’s a pretty chill person. He’s laid back. Put bluntly, he’s too lazy to care about most slights, whether serious ones from Papyrus or joking ones from you. But when you didn’t get a witty comeback, you looked up-

“What?”

“predictable? c’mon, i’m not predictable.”

Oh. That got to him?

. . .

Well… you could apologize and move on…

OR. You could totally milk it for all it’s worth.

“Oh, really?”

“i’m not!”

He looked so slightly irked by it- like watching someone with OCD stare at a book placed upside-down on a bookshelf. Not ANGRY. Just… ruffled.

“thanks for the shake, though,” he added, in a mumble.

“No problem.”

The argument didn’t stop there. He seemed slightly put off for the rest of the day, and you were reveling in the sweetness of a victory. Finding a weakness, a little chink in the armor.

Even if it bothered him, you were willing to do anything to see him care about something. 

So, over the next few weeks, you tried to prove your point in as many subtle ways as possible. Putting the movie you knew he’d want to watch for movie night out on the coffee table for him to find. Building a little nest of blankets when he came home with a migraine- he didn’t tell you he had one, but when he didn’t call you on the way home, you guessed.

It was just a joke, originally. But slowly, you realized he WAS predictable. You knew what was going on in his head, often before he did. 

He kept trying to do little things that he thought you wouldn’t guess- randomly dragging you to movies that you KNOW he hated, picking up random hobbies that he sucked at, doing anything and everything to prove it to you. Sure, you often didn’t see it coming, but none of it counted, because it wasn’t like him.

It wasn’t unpredictable, because it wasn’t something he legitimately wanted to do. It was just to prove you wrong. 

The icing on the cake for you was when he started bringing home flowers. Normally he wouldn’t go to the effort to do anything romantic like that, but he REALLY wanted you to admit to his “unpredictability.”

Slowly, he picked up your preferences. He really hadn’t expected you to be so in love with the bouquets he brought home, but you were always partial to flowers. 

Roses- any color- were not your thing. You appreciated the sentiment, but thought that they were overused.

Daisies were better. You liked the smell and the happy way they sat in vases. That was his go-to for several days before he tried anything new.

Buttercups went fabulously. He’d brought them home in a thin little bouquet and set them on the coffee table in a mug.

“What kind are those?” you asked, with a small smile at the never-ending joke this was.

“buttercups,” he informed you, tapping his skull with a pencil as he looked at the day’s crossword in the paper.

“They’re pretty,” you murmur, rubbing one of the petals in your fingertips. You observe your fingers as they glow yellow in the light of the flower. “I didn’t know they could do that.”

“what, make ya glow?” 

“Yeah.”

“they’re cool like that.”

“Okay, Mr. Buttercup expert, tell me what else they can do,” you say, dropping onto the couch.

“they’re poisonous, so don’t even think about eating ‘em,” he says absently. “you know a four letter word for boring?” 

“Sans.”

“hey,” he chuckles, looking up. “fine, fine. uh. don’t eat em. they make stuff glow. they used to grow everywhere in the underground, King Fluffybuns loved ‘em.”

“That’s cute.”

“yeah.” He puts his elbow on the arm of the couch and his chin in his hand, staring at the bouquet. “Paps used to go out and water ‘em and then bring bunches home. petals got frickin’ everywhere, like you have no idea. but- he’d make flower crowns and stuff on the days he wasn’t on guard duty. he said it was going to be the way he got new friends.”

You only really know Papyrus from Sans’ stories, and from their FaceTime calls. He’s a lot taller and louder than Sans. They really love each other, you know that much.

“You have to bring me to meet him one day, if he’s half as cute as you are I think we’re going to get along fine.”

He blushes so hard you think the blue will stick in his face- you stand and peck him on the top of the skull, then head to the kitchen grab a snack.

“Oh, and a four-letter word for boring is “dull”.”

You look over your shoulder in time to see him brighten in surprise, and scribble on his paper.

The next flower combo he brought home were buttercups and baby’s breath. They’re tiny white flowers that grow twenty-to-a-stem. You were so fond of the little buds that he’d put them anywhere he knew you’d go.

You found those things under your pillows, in your closet, sometimes you’d find them in your hair without even knowing how they got there. They made you smile.

And then the game changed- the game wasn’t proving his unpredictability- it was pulling those little smiles out of you.

“Why do you keep putting these everywhere?” you asked once, when you found a little bunch in the pocket of your backpack.

“you look cute when you find ‘em,” he said, with a grin. 

You’d looked away so you didn’t have to face that, because it was so adorable, and you were so flustered. It didn’t last long though- he’d tapped you on the shoulder so you’d turn around, then kissed you and made the blushing worse.

“You’re a riot.”

“you’re a-dorable.”

That should have been it. But then those flowers had led to something ELSE- looking back, you called that two-week period the “Blush Wars”.

The goal of the unspoken game was simple: Out-fluster the other.

Nothing was below the bar. Public or private, dirty or sweet, physical or compliment, it didn’t matter. Nobody kept score, but- that’s a lie, you both totally had a tally going in your heads.

There had to have been hundreds of things you did for each other in those two weeks, but the highlights included:

When you (*barely*) shivered in the frozen section at Walmart and he wrapped his hoodie around your shoulders.

When you searched online for different skeleton-related pet names and then made Sans flip out when you called him “sugarskull” in public.

When you picked up a shirt and suggested “hey, this would look good on you”, he countered with picking up an empty hanger and suggesting that that would look good on you. 

When you asked a random chick at the mall to hit on Sans, specifically so you could defend him. She had been mad, but Sans had never blushed harder in his life at seeing someone get chewed out.

When Sans started singing “AND AT LAST I SEE THE LIIIIIIGHT” in the candle section at Target, swinging you around by your hands, and consequently making every child in earshot sing along. Long story short, you’re not allowed in Target again.

And that’s just what happened in public- we aren’t even getting INTO what happened at the house. Hint: there were a lot of surprise kisses.

Finally, it started to die down- you were both running out of ideas, admittedly, and called a truce.

But the cute gestures didn’t stop there, OH no. Disney movies-turned-makeout sessions, date nights, sneaking out to public parks at two in the morning together because it felt right. 

Speaking of that PARTICULAR endeavor, when you got the home the next day, it was a nightmare. You were so tired you crashed on the couch when you got home (at five), and didn’t wake up until twelve. And when you finally did, it was slow.

“You up, skullboy?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“ish.”

“Same. Wanna watch cartoons?”

“only if looney-tunes are on.”

“It’s Friday, they’ll have re-runs.”

They did, luckily. You’d curled up like a cat, the back of your head on his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin sitting on the crown of your head. Comfy and snug, not wanting to move.

That is, until your stomach growled.

“want me to make hotdogs?”

“I can do it if you want.”

“nah, i got it.”

“Thanks, skullboy.”

“no prob, bob.”

He shifted off the couch, yawning and cracking his spine. You settled into the pillows, nearly falling asleep again. That is, until Sans called from the other room-

“food.”

You rolled off the couch, pulling a blanket over your head. 

“Ughh, we should never stay up that late again,” you sighed, dropping into a chair and putting your head on the table. 

“agreed,” he grunted, setting your plate in front of you and grabbing his off the counter.

“It was fun, though,” you admitted with a smile. “Remember when you did the teleport thingy because of that cop?”

“it’s CALLED a shortcut,” he said indignantly.

“Right, right. Still. You, heheh, you ended up behind the tree, and I, heheheh, landed IN the tree…”

“i still don’t understand how you managed that, I was the one guiding it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m weird like that. We have any ketchup left, or did you drink it all?”

He looked over at your plate, then sighed with a laugh. 

“i forgot, sorry. still some in the fridge though, i’ll go get it.”

You mumbled a thank-you and picked little bread crumbs off of your hotdog bun, putting them on your tongue. 

Sans came back in, watching you amusedly as you did that. Pfft- you’re so weird. He came over and poked your back to make you jump. 

“Hey,” you whined, looking up. “Be nice to the human.”

He chuckled and rubbed your back with one hand, then mussed your hair through the blanket.

“ok.”

You sat up and pulled the blanket off of your head, instead wrapping it around your shoulders. Your hair was a mess, but he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that smile. (Even if that time it came with an eye-roll.)

“Ketchup, please.”

“yeah, ok.”

He paused, staring from his hand to the plate, before putting on his smug grin. He then proceeded to write his name. On your hotdog. With the ketchup. You looked at it with a smirk, then bit the part with the “S” off.

“Thanks, Ans.”

“oh, shoot, i shouldn’t have given myself that totally permanent name change. dang.”

Another bite.

“Yeah- uh- Ns, that was a big mistake.”

“what are you going to call me when you finish the hotdog?”

“We’ll see, S,” you said, after another few bites.

“whatever, i’m eating mine.” 

You looked over curiously to see what he planned on writing on his- he scribbled your name on his hotdog, then took a bite. Back and forth, cutting off letters- finally, you resorted to calling him “Crumbs”, because that was all that was left on your plate.

That was your nickname for him for the rest of the day- until dinner. More hotdogs. More writing. That time he did a heart on yours, and let you do his. You did the same. 

It was probably not the healthiest thing, but the next several meals- including breakfast- were all things you could eat with ketchup, if only for the game. Chicken nuggets, hotdogs, toast (trust me), anything. 

And names and hearts weren’t the half of it. It got weird. You tried a pentagram once to summon “the ketchup spirits.” Sans renamed them the “ConDEMONts.” 

There were whole sentences, patterns, faces- Sans once drew his OLD HOUSE in ketchup.

You thought it was hilarious. Every meal was a continuation of a months-running joke that kept changing, and you could not get enough of it. 

Finally, though, you had some neighborhood dinner party coming up. Something new to eat, even if it wasn’t half as fun. 

“Sans, we have to get ready.”

“i don’t wanna gooooo…”

“They’ll have free food, and people to talk to.”

“everybody in this neighborhood is so judgy…”

“Screw them, then. We can still go for the food.”

He squinted at the carpet, weighing his options, before standing. 

“fine. but if somebody calls me a ‘dirty monster’ again, heads will roll.”

You gave him a quick hug-

“Thank you. Nobody will be rude, I promise.”

“c’mon, you don’t need to get sappy.”

You held him at arms length and sighed.

“i really want something that isn’t covered in ketchup.” 

He chuckled, taking one of your hands and “shortcutting” you upstairs. 

“you go get ready or whatever, i’m just gonna wear this.”

“Okay!”

You went and changed into something half-presentable, hoping it’ll make a good first impression. Graphic tee, jeans, and a ponytail. Nothing fancy, but more than you’d usually try. 

You perked up, looking at your reflection. Yeah! This’d be cute!

Maybe the good impression would rub off on Sans, too. 

Most of the neighbors were… well. How to put this nicely? They were old. And that came (and still comes) with quite a bit of prejudice against many new things. Like monsters, and WiFi, and video games, all that jazz. You didn’t want them to say anything mean. Anything ELSE mean. Because they’d already said some less-than-kind stuff behind his back, and you were sick of it.

With a sigh, you shook it off. You weren’t going for the people, anyway. You were going for the food.

“you ready, or can we just stay home?” Sans called, outside the bathroom.

“I’m coming, don’t get your hopes up.”

When you walked out, he let out a long whistle. You raised your eyebrows.

“What? C’mon, is it that bad?” you asked, self-conscious.

“nah, not at all. you look great.”

You smacked him lightly in the arm as you walked by, headed towards the stairs.

“i’m serious!”

“For once,” you laughed.

“hey.” He grabbed your shoulder, sounding disappointed.

You looked backwards, giving a small smile. 

“Sorry. Um. Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against yours, giving you a light skele-kiss on his way by. 

“i wish you could just take compliments, sweetheart. you deserve ‘em.”

…

You know those thoughts? 

…

The ones that come out of nowhere and send you bent over laughing, because they’re so stupid? 

Your face screwed up with laughter, and you had to look away so you could snort into your hand.

“i’m not kidding this time,” he said, looking slightly concerned.

It was hard, sometimes, loving you. You trusted him, sure- but not enough to believe everything he said. And he doubted he’d ever met someone who had more trouble taking a compliment than you. You’d be fine, normally. You weren’t a total shell of a person, you still had self-respect, yes. But with little things… when he told you he thought you looked nice, when he told you you’re smart or witty or cute, you couldn’t accept it.

And it hurt him. You really should have seen that he picked you for a reason. That he could pick out a sweet soul like yours out of a crowd, and you were unique.

However, you were laughing. And that made him kind of disappointed.

“you do!” he insisted. “you do deserve ‘em.” 

“N-no,” you snickered, bent over halfway and red in the face. “It’s not t-that, it’s not that, oh geez…!”

“then what’s funny? i miss somethin’? there’s not somethin’ wrong with my face, is there?” A tentative grin crept up onto his face as he watched you, laughter tears building up in your eyes.

“No! I just- I thought- what if I said-“ you started laughing again, and you had to take a few deep breaths before you could speak. “I thought, “what if I said, ‘if I’m such a snack, are you going to draw your face on me in ketchup?’”

He looked at you for a second, then started laughing, too. 

“what?!” he snorted.

While you looked away, he grabbed your hand and shortcutted you into the kitchen. Before you had a second to blink, he snagged a ketchup out of the fridge and took aim.

“you think i won’t do it?”

You kept laughing, doubled over. But when you noticed the dead-frickin’-serious glint in his eyelights, you straightened up and put your hands up.

“Woah, tiger, we have a thing we’re going to, remember?”

He aimed right at you, still not opening the cap. 

“i’ll do it!”

“Oh MY god, Sans, put down the friggin’ ketchup.”

You reached to the side and opened the fridge, pulling out a bottle of mustard. You could practically HEAR his face scrunch up in disgust. 

“ew.”

“Suit yourself, I get a good weapon.”

You took aim as well, and ignored the clock warning you you were going to be late to the party. It was just a standoff then. Who would back down first?

“We’re going to be late, bonehead.”

“we both drop the condiments at the same time.”

“Okay. Three, two-”

SPLAT.  
~~~~~ Which is how you got where you are now.

Passed out on the kitchen floor, a bump raising on your forehead, covered in ketchup. 

“oh, shit, oh shit, oh SHIT,” Sans yelps, dropping his bottle of ketchup and crouching down next to you. Oh, that is going to hurt when you wake up…

“sweetheart? oh, shit- uh,” he picks you up with blue magic and turns you over onto your back, laying you against the side of the counter. “baby, wake up, ‘m sorry, oh shit-”

It takes about five minutes, and Sans considers calling an ambulance, when your eyes flicker open and you groan.

“Ow,owowowowowowowowww…”

“i know,” he says, letting out a small sigh of relief that you’re conscious again.

You raise your hand and cup it over the bump, trying to shield it somehow. 

“hey, don’t touch-“ you wince and pull away, tears beading at the corners of your eyes from the throbbing. “-it.”

He gently holds your hands in one of his, then raises his hand towards it. You move your head away with a hiss.

“trust me, sweetheart, ‘m not gonna hurt it. ‘m pretty bad at healing, but this is nothin. it’ll be super fast, it’ll feel really nice, i swear.”

You nod, gritting your teeth. He puts a hand on your face, careful not to bump the mark before he gets some substantial healing magic summoned. Once he has some of the warm green magic in his fingers, he presses a palm to the bump. 

You let a moan of relief, leaning forward into his hand. 

“told’ja.”

After not too long, the bump is gone, and all you’re left with is a headache. But there’s Advil for that.

“we are NOT goin’ to that party, you need a shower,” he hums, leaning back on his heels and dispelling the healing magic.

You nod tiredly and sigh, looking down at your ketchup-stained shirt with disdain.

“This was a good shirt, too…”

“mostly i’m glad you aren’t dead right now, but yeah, real shame about the shirt,” he deadpans.

You lean forward and hug him, curled over a little so none of the ketchup gets on his hoodie. 

“Thank you.”

He rolls his eyelights and rubs your back in comforting little circles.

“i love ya, you know that?”

“You too,” you mumble, starting to fall asleep. “You, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> HEY'DJA LIKE IT????????  
> HIT ME UP WITH DEM COMMENTS   
> AND  
> SMMMMAAAAAAASSSSHHHH  
> THAT KUDOS BUTTON!!!!!!!!!  
> HAHAHAHAHA
> 
> ...
> 
> god strike me down


End file.
